


catch me when I fall (from grace)

by Caisar



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [6]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Assassins Won, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Don't @ Me, For a Given Value of Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Personal Favorite, Post-Break Up, This Is Our Time, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caisar/pseuds/Caisar
Summary: Sometimes—at the worst of times—he thinks they had it easy, back then; the four of them playing house, trying to save the world without a thought to what comes after.Congratulations, they did it—now there’s bills to pay.
Relationships: Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626937
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	catch me when I fall (from grace)

**Author's Note:**

> In which Cai took a very wrong turn and wrote shadow shaundes. All that domestic fluff had to be balanced out somehow.
> 
> Fic finished in November, 2019.
> 
> Title from: _Chelsea_ by Dragged Under.

He doesn’t bother with questions anymore.

Before, he would insist on learning all that he humanly could about any situation he was to be tangentially involved in and many he wouldn’t even skirt close to. His mind has always been like that, a terrain of _when_ s and _who_ s and _why_ s, and being on the losing side of a war didn’t help his need to _know_ , either—being on the listening side of countless deaths as he desperately tried to scramble up a connection through whichever line or feed he could get his hands on to direct whoever still remained—if anyone at all—into safety, the mission long aborted.

Nowadays, though, he only asks _where_ , scribbles down the address on the corner of the nearest clean sheet of paper and gets up to throw on some street clothes.

Truth be told, he didn’t know there was a bar left in the city that Desmond had yet to get kicked out of.

* * *

Even with his back to the door—especially with his back to the door—Desmond is easy to spot on a low-backed stool by the far end of the counter, that hoodie giving him away like a beacon. He’s talking to the bartender—rather, the bartender is talking at him and he presumably responds, most of his face hidden behind the hand he’s tentatively touching on a thin line of white at his forehead.

The dread pooled in Shaun’s gut grows only heavier.

As the bartender moves to the short line that materialised on the other end of the counter, something round in hand, he charts a path through and follows it, doing his best not to touch any of the tables. Desmond is staring down at the half-full glass in front of him, one hand still at the butterfly bandage over his left brow, the other resting on the counter, the reds of his knuckles standing out brightly. Whatever trouble Desmond must have gotten himself into this time, it seems a tad more complicated than having had a little too much.

It would’ve been so easy, turning on his heel and walking straight out of this shithole before he’s spotted. He may have come this far—doesn’t owe it to Desmond to go the extra mile. He could just drive back home, switch off his phone, bury himself in his bed and let someone else save Desmond from himself for once—

Who, though?

“Lucky thing they let you in, looking like that,” he comments as he takes the empty seat next to Desmond. Smelling like that, too, he might add, now that he is close enough; not the sharp _drowned in a bottle_ stench he had expected, but sweat and grime and something else that tickles his nose in all the worst ways.

Desmond’s shoulders tense up, for all he tries to hide it under turning in his stool. “Hello to you, too,” he grumbles, dropping his hand to send him a glare.

Shaun’s stomach slowly sinks to his feet, taking everything on its path with it.

Between the swollen right eye—almost shut, purpling around the edges—and the long scrape down his left cheek, disappearing into his scruff, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere on Desmond’s face left untouched. Even his nose looks _wrong_ somehow—though that might also be the crappy overhead lights—and while his face is carefully cleaned, no trace of blood or anything, his clothes tell of a different story entirely.

He reaches out on instinct to touch where Desmond’s freshly busted his lip—Desmond pulls back before it makes contact, looking away.

Entirely too aware of his heartbeat, he latches his fingers together in his lap, taking a deep breath that does nothing to help the tightness in his chest. “Keep going like this and you won’t get to skate by your looks much longer,” he says, because if he doesn’t say _something_ , he’s going to fucking burst.

Desmond glares at him through the one eye, scowl dragging deeper—then glances at a spot above Shaun’s head, straightening up. Shaun turns as well, to find the bartender approaching them with a—thankfully, clean-looking—rag full of ice, a purple pin that reads “THEY/THEM” shining over the black of the apron.

The bartender gives him only a passing glance, a quick size-up before turning and handing the bundle to Desmond, who takes it with a mumble of _thanks_ and holds it on his eye. They reach over the counter to fix his grip, _casual_ as you please.

The taste in his mouth turns sour.

“How’s the head?” they ask Desmond gently, open concern lining their face as they peer down at him.

Desmond winces, which seems to pass for a response. With the offending eye covered, he looks even more wretched somehow, the rest of his injuries on better display. Shaun hadn’t noticed how gaunt his cheeks have gotten, the fading spread of bruises on his face, in too many different shades to be all from today—or, possibly, even the same day.

What in the world has the bloody idiot been up to all this time?

Leaving Desmond with the bundle, the bartender turns to finally look at Shaun— _through_ him, more accurately, as if they could get his background check and an X-ray with one glance. He firmly believes that he should be the one to dish out the suspicious glares, given the circumstances, but he’s not particularly adamant on arguing the point.

“Shaun, was it,” they say without extending their hand, not quite a question.

This tone he recognises, at least. “It was,” he confirms, making no move to extend his, either. “And you’re the mysterious voice on the phone, I take it.” Not what he was expecting to find on this side, admittedly.

“MJ,” they say with a single nod. “Mighty nice to finally put a face to the name, I’ll say.” They tilt their chin to Desmond, who has that glare fixed in MJ’s direction now, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “Dessie here told me all about you.”

Did he now. _Dessie_ sure as hell didn’t breathe a word to him about MJ. “All good things, I’m sure.”

“Good enough that I’ll let you take him home and fix him up,” they say, sweeping a hand widely as if they’re making a generous concession on his behalf.

Right. That’s why he’s here—because he was _chosen_.

“And I’ll thank you for the privilege,” he says with an overplayed nod of thanks, not bothering to keep the resentment out of his tone. This whole exchange—it’s nothing more than an elaborate hand-over.

MJ leans over the counter on their hands and looks at him squarely, all hard eyes on too soft a face. Desmond always did have a type. “If you’d rather leave him here and walk away, be my guest,” they offer, grinning with too many teeth. “Your number wasn’t the only one on his phone.”

_As if._

He slowly straightens up on his stool, resting his forearms on the edge of the counter. At this angle, they’re about eye to eye, he and MJ. “Probably not,” he agrees, cordial enough even as his face tingles at the jab, all his blood rushing north. “But it was the only one that would answer a call from him at this hour.”

Too harsh? Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He knows better than to fool himself; Desmond didn’t pick him for his gentle touch and stellar company.

Ignoring the hollowing of his gut, he half-turns to Desmond. “Ready when you are.”

“’m ready now,” Desmond mutters to the counter. Shaun nods, reaching for his pocket.

“All taken care of,” MJ says before he can pull out his wallet, waving him off. They’re still watching him with that careful look, though this time it feels less like being sized up, more like he _has been_ —and found thoroughly lacking. Oh well, he’s used to being a disappointment. “Just take him home.”

That much he can manage.

* * *

Desmond’s most recent rat hole is another forty minutes from the bar, on the far side of a neighbourhood considered to be within the city borders merely because no one cared enough to exclude it.

“Like _fuck_ ,” Shaun mutters and punches in the address of his own flat into the navigation system, steeling himself for the argument or the irritated sigh or whatever else Desmond might be in the mood for tonight.

Desmond turns back to the window without a word. Small mercies.

* * *

Soon, though, he finds himself wishing for that argument after all. Without anything to distract it, it’s all too easy for his mind to stray to other times like this: escaping towns in the dead of the night, taking turns driving and keeping an eye on the road, the radio on low so as not to disturb those sleeping in the back. Sometimes—at the worst of times—he thinks they had it easy, back then; the four of them playing house, trying to save the world without a thought to what comes after.

Congratulations, they did it—now there’s bills to pay.

Desmond has his gaze fixed on the windshield as if he can even see anything, his bag under his crossed arms, running an idle thumb over his new split. If he keeps at it, he’ll have a matching set soon enough.

“I don’t think I’ve got any ice at home,” Shaun says instead of pointing that out. Desmond drops his hand as if burned anyway. “You might have to make do with frozen peas.”

“’s fine,” Desmond sighs. “Too late anyway.”

That it is.

* * *

On the bright side, under the decent lighting of the flat, Desmond’s nose doesn’t seem to be broken.

The flip side he stubbornly chooses to ignore as he works down the buttons of his coat; Desmond's already stripped down to his thin shirt in his periphery, tugging at his shoelaces. Not even in long sleeves—of course not. Leave it to Desmond to strut about in threadbare clothing when it’s fuck degrees out there.

“I trust you remember where the shower is,” he says as he hangs his coat and puts away their shoes, Desmond’s bag on top of them. Desmond only grunts in answer before slinking down the hallway, likely because he’d needed to go that way anyway.

Dragging himself to the bedroom, he exchanges his trousers for a clean pair of joggers and digs around until he finds one that might fit Desmond—something that would’ve been practically impossible the last time they saw each other. Picking out a sweatshirt as well—that doesn’t seem to be his own in the first place, come to think of it—he walks back out and drops them at the bathroom door, knocking twice.

“Left you some clothes,” he calls out and waits until he gets a muffled response back. That’s one thing done.

Up next, kitchen—god, oh god, the _kitchen_. He had completely forgotten the state he’d left it in. The dinner table is covered with papers—in an _every-fucking-where_ way instead of the neat, systematic thing he had imagined the sight to be. The coffee cups he truly did mean to put in the sink are still sitting next to his laptop, as the sink is already overfilled with dishes and the semi-burned pot he’d left to soak overnight three days ago, more littering about the rest of the counter. All right, things _may_ have gotten out of hand a bit, in hindsight; but he can’t be blamed for it. Between school and his research, he’s barely had time to remember to feed himself, let alone keeping things clean and tidy. Not as if he was expecting _guests_.

He really shouldn’t have answered the phone.

He starts tidying up in haste—which is to say, all papers go on top of the closed laptop in a messy, uneven pile and all dishes in the sink now filled with water, including the two cups of coffee that went cold long before he could even touch them. Taking a moment to listen out for the water—still running, fortunately—he peers into his fridge, his stomach sinking at the sight once again. It’s not barren, as such; but he didn’t have the time for grocery shopping, either, which shows. He’s never had his mother’s skill of concocting something out of practically nothing, but digging deeper, he can spot just enough to prepare an early— _very_ early—breakfast.

It is AM hours, after all. It should count.

He grabs the egg carton and piles up whatever else he can find onto the table. While at it, he dips into his—rather impressive, if he may say so himself—tea selection as well. By the time the bathroom door opens, he has what he can call a modest spread on the table, teabag steeping in the mug.

When it opens for the second time, he flips the omelette.

He’s gotten too used to the almost uniform quiet of the flat; Desmond’s footsteps stand out as he approaches, a light shuffle on the carpet right up until they stop in the doorway. Switching the stove off, Shaun wets a cloth and grabs the pan, taking them both to the table.

“All my flat plates are at the bottom of the sink,” he—unnecessarily—explains as he sets the cloth on the table, the pan on top of it. “You’ll just have to deal.”

Desmond is lingering in the doorway, glancing between Shaun and the table with this odd, almost tender look. The weight that has been dancing in his stomach seats itself in the middle of his chest, right under his heart.

“You didn’t have to,” Desmond rasps, just enough of a question mark in the tone. Shaun doesn’t know the question leading to it—isn’t sure he wants to, either.

“Damn right I didn’t,” he throws back, because the alternative is blurting out _what the fuck else was I supposed to do_ and _that’s_ plain embarrassing. The clothes don’t hang off Desmond’s frame as much as he feared, but he wasn’t terribly off in his estimation, either—certainly not enough to be relieved about it. He clears his throat. “But since it’s already done, you might as well sit down and eat before it gets cold.”

Desmond finally moves to the table, not without one last glance at him. Shaun keeps his glare on him until he picks up his fork and reaches for the olives just in case.

With that crossed off the list, he folds up his sleeves, unclips his watch and starts on the dishes. He hardly has a burning desire to get them out of the way, but it’s something to do, at least. Beats standing there and thinking himself into corners.

Right now, everything beats thinking.

The silence stretches between them, almost peaceful for once. It’s… interesting, the change of air that comes with having someone else in the room. He didn’t quite miss cramming into safe houses for weeks, sometimes months at a time, nothing but the same bland walls and each other’s faces to stare at; but it would be a lie to say he never looks up from his laptop to an empty flat and wishes he had someone to share this shiny thing he’s just stumbled upon, the excitement of the discovery blending with the bitter disappointment.

Paper shuffles behind him, the unmistakeable sound of Desmond getting his grubby hands on his research. The instinct is to snap _don’t touch my notes_ ; he pushes it down. Not even on their emptiest days did his work keep Desmond interested for long; he just needs to wait out the three seconds before Desmond gets bored.

“You still researching the Pieces?”

Huh. Now that’s new.

“Without much success,” he admits, reaching into the water for another cup. “With the network down, my research ‘team’ boils down to me and the occasional student I manage to snatch from other projects. Not what you could call a concentrated effort.”

Desmond makes a sound that, under different conditions, could be considered amused. A strange warmth spreads through him. “Thought you must’ve had enough of ‘em for two lifetimes.”

He snorts, despite himself. “ _Hardly_. This was my life’s discovery; it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give it up.”

Most of the time, he doesn’t blame Lucy for the choices she’d made. Couldn’t, really; not when the woman gave up her life for what she believed was right and brought down a war that spanned millennia with her. Just, the historian in him can’t help grieving all the knowledge the world has lost without even knowing that they had it in the first place.

He turns his head a little, just enough to get Desmond in his view. “What about you?” he asks, aiming for a conversational tone. _Where have you been_ is the burning question, followed by _who broke your face?_ He settles on: “How have you been?”

Desmond gives him a long, considering look—uncomfortably reminiscent of MJ. Shrugs a shoulder, too stiff to be casual. “Been better, been worse. You know how it is.”

Disappointment curls in his gut, too heavy to push away. Right. Whatever made him think he might get a real answer for once anyway.

Wash, rinse, put away, repeat. The last of the dishes on the drying rack, he unplugs the sink and grabs the pot, emptying it into the water draining down. It’s probably unsalvageable, realistically, but it’s not in his nature to let go without a fight. His to-do list is long enough without adding shopping for kitchenware on it.

The chair creaks, dragging against the tiles. It’s entirely unwelcome, the tension that creeps up his spine, the sound alone enough to shift all his awareness to the movement behind him.

Desmond drops his dishes next to the sink one by one, including the mostly-full cup of tea that he puts down with an apologetic half-smile. “Thanks.”

He nods in response, scrubbing the pot harder.

Instead of stepping away like anyone with some respect for personal space would, Desmond keeps standing _right there_ , resting a hand on the edge of the counter, seemingly watching the side of Shaun’s head. This close, Shaun can smell his own shampoo on him if he tries, the sweeter scent of his fabric softener underneath.

Desmond sighs. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers and—

And his heart still responds, the traitor.

They’ve been here before. They’ve been here so many times before that it shouldn’t even matter, now, that Desmond can still find it in himself to say the words. He’d said other words before; where did _that_ get them?

“Well, you obviously still have my number,” he bites out, the words like ash on his tongue. “You’ve never had to get yourself kicked out of bars or—or— _beaten up_ to use it.”

Desmond shifts away. The bastard doesn’t even care to look at him, staring at some spot on the far wall instead, the tip of his tongue back on the split as if he _wants_ it to scar. Started something he can’t see through; how typical.

Dropping the sponge into the pot—not as if he was getting anywhere—he runs his hands under the water and grabs a towel. “Where have you been, Desmond?” he asks without looking at him, busying himself with dying his hands thoroughly, too tired to keep beating around the bush. There isn’t enough space in the room even with Desmond backed away—not nearly enough air.

“Around.”

 _Around_. “I see,” he says, nodding slowly. “Perhaps I should ask MJ instead, see if they know _all about_ that, too.”

Desmond stiffens, his hand clenching on the edge. “Don’t bring them into this,” he says tightly—not a threat, not quite, but a warning through and through.

So that’s how it is.

“As far as I’m concerned, you brought them into this,” he points out. “I didn’t even know they existed until tonight, now did I.” He rests a hip against the counter, folding his arms across his chest, the towel still clutched tight in his fist. “Who are they, by the way?”

“The only one on my side when I needed someone to be the most,” Desmond responds with a pointed look, his lips pressed together—and oh, isn’t that rich.

So many responses he could give to that, so many biting remarks, the weight of them almost physical on the tip of his tongue. “I thought you didn’t need people anymore,” he says simply, leaning heavier on his hip. Desmond flinches. “Big boy Desmond, running away from his problems all by his lonesome, no help necessary—just be there to pick up the pieces afterwards.”

Something dark passes over Desmond’s face, blink-and-you-miss-it. “I’m trying to do better.”

He lets his eyes wander down Desmond’s face, the cut of his knuckles that are still flaring red with a hint of purple. Desmond’s hand twitches again. “Clearly.”

“Jesus Christ, I forgot you were this much of an asshole,” Desmond mutters under his breath. It’s not even in the general vicinity of the worst names they’ve called each other—it shouldn’t sting. Not as much as it does.

“Can you blame me? You ring me up from a bar after—what, seven, eight months of radio silence, looking like _this_ —” He waves his free hand up and down Desmond’s body. “—and expect me to give you the benefit of the doubt. Don’t get me wrong, Desmond, but you don’t exactly have the sort of track record that inspires blind trust.”

“I’m not—” Desmond starts only to cut himself off on a long exhale, shaking his head. Making the three steps over to the table, he drops himself on a chair in an ungainly heap and rests his elbows on the bread crumb-covered surface.

“I don’t expect anything of you,” Desmond starts again slowly, exhaustion wrapped around his words. Anger doesn’t drain out of Shaun, but it’s that much harder to keep going when Desmond starts rubbing at his temples with enough force that Shaun’s head throbs just to watch. “I’m not here to—I dunno, to get back into your good graces or whatever scheme you think I’m halfway capable of thinkin’ up.”

“Then why are you here?” Shaun snaps—realises, with an odd cramping of his stomach, that _this_ was the burning question after all. _This_ was the one that haunted him all this time, whenever Desmond’s name popped up on his screen. Whenever it didn’t.

Desmond looks up from the table sideways, one hand still at his temple. “What do you mean?”

Part of him wants to take it back, to wave it off with a curt _never mind_ and making a hasty exit to prepare Desmond’s bed. The stupider, impulsive part is already pushing on with: “You make friends faster than I can lose them; I’m sure you could find somewhere to crash even in the state you were, didn’t have to suffer my hospitality.” _Why me_ , he’s smart enough to hold back, at least.

The curl of Desmond’s lips is odd—too sharp for a smile, too soft for anything else. “Why do you always come?”

Why indeed.

Releasing a breath that takes more than air out of him, he makes his fingers uncurl around the towel and folds it into a neat square, placing it on the counter. The pot is still sitting in the sink, the sponge in the middle of it like a sunken ship. It’s too late to deal with the dishes—for this conversation—it’s too late for bloody anything.

“There are sheets and a spare pillow in the closet,” he says, pointing in the general direction of the closet in the next room. “I believe you can make your bed yourself. I’m going to sleep.”

Desmond nods, a barely-there movement. Shaun only lingers in the kitchen long enough to bin the used teabag and line the rest of the dishes around the pot to deal with tomorrow. Later today. Whenever.

It must be the hour messing with his head, why he pauses in the doorway just before he leaves and says, “And don’t leave without a goodbye this time.”

“Okay,” Desmond lies.

And so it goes.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for:  
> \- This is Our Time, a modern-day focused Assassin's Creed zine. You can find out more about it [here](https://acmodernz.tumblr.com).  
> \- Bad Things Happen Bingo, for the prompt: reluctant caretaker. (6/25 filled; find the full list [here](https://desynchimminent.tumblr.com/post/181821535129/received-my-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo-full).) Fun fact, this fic was the first one I had finished for BTHB.


End file.
